It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald.
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